


I'm Sorry, He Whispered

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Gen, Silmarils, Valinor, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: Two vignettes: a flashback to times of innocence in Valinor, and the terrible decision now left before Maedhros and Maglor after the War of Wrath.





	I'm Sorry, He Whispered

**Author's Note:**

> A fic posted for the Tolkien Fandom 2017 Secret Santa and now transplanted here for posterity. The title provides the connective thread to these two vignettes, and is meant to be read as the final line of the first scene, and vice versa. It will become clear upon reading! Enjoy!

"Nelyo!" Maglor whispered; his chubby fingers clung against the balcony where he crouched hidden, and he looked at his brother with round, imploring eyes. "Nelyo, don't... We're going to get into trouble..."

"Shhh, Káno!" hissed Maedhros. A shock of copper hair glinted in the golden light as he drew himself up, as mischievous eyes peeked out over the balcony to the tranquil pool below.

"But -" Maglor's small voice dwindled as Maedhros glared at him, and nervously Maglor watched as his brother turned to gaze out over the pool once more.

Its glassy surface was smooth and cool, and upon it small lilies lay drifting, their green leaves dappling the clear water. Between them the great swans of the House of Finarfin glided; their magnificent necks bent, their elegant white wings folded upon their backs as they swam in the gloaming light. Amid the serene adults the juveniles were dotted also; soft grey down ruffled in the quiet breeze, and between the small water-flowers they floated as clouds upon a high summer day.   

Sweet and calm were the gardens of Finarfin, the leaves there were evergreen, yet impish faces spied upon them as Maedhros and Maglor lingered upon the balcony above. 

"It's _fine_ ," Maedhros grinned, he scanned the grand stairways that swept away in great crescent arms to the gardens encircled below, and finding them deserted he nudged an elbow into Maglor's ribs. "Uncle won't mind, he has lots of swans! And you said that you wanted one, right? A nice fuzzy little one, like we talked about: we can take it home when Father is done with his boring meeting and it can swim in our fountain!" 

At that Maglor faltered, a concerned look crumpled his brow, and softly he replied, "I did... but..." 

"Then be quiet and help me!" Maedhros snapped, he whirled back around and stared calculatingly down at the pool. Behind him, Maglor's breathing shook, prompting only a quick scoff of derision. "Don't be such a cry-baby, Káno."   

" _I'm not a cry-baby_ ," Maglor muttered, and he would have said more, but for a blur of movement and Maedhros' hand clapped suddenly across his mouth. 

"Shhhhh!" he hissed, "Someone's coming!" 

Footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor behind them, and carefully the brothers edged away from the balcony door, concealing themselves behind a nearby pillar obscuring the view from the inner house. For a few taut breaths they waited, they shivered with nervous, rascal thrill, until gradually the steps receded, and two small heads popped out from behind the pillar once more. 

"Okay, look," Maedhros whispered, "you go that way." He pointed to his left, down the airy staircase that wound slowly down to the gardens below. "You go left, and I'll go right. We can see each other through the gaps in the stair railing, so when we both get to the bottom I'll wave to you. When you wave back, I can make a noise, or maybe I'll run out, and then the swans will flap away, and they'll flap over to you, see? Then you can grab one, whichever one you want!" His voice lifted in triumph, and with a confident grin he proclaimed, "It'll be _easy_!"   

Maglor's cheeks blanched, his heart raced within his chest, and plaintively he replied, "But... but Nelyo, I'm not sure... It's... it's _stealing_..." 

"It's not stealing!" Maedhros pouted, "It's... it's borrowing..." His lips twisted in annoyance, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at his brother. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to do it in the first place! You can't chicken out now!" 

"Nelyo, I - " 

A crestfallen sigh slumped Maedhros' shoulders, and reticently he looked down at Maglor's worried face. "You're never any fun," he said bitterly, and with a huff of disappointment he turned away. 

At that Maglor's lip wobbled, shame burned in his heart, and dejectedly he looked away.

 

x

_"I'm sorry," he whispered._

x

 

"Nelyo," Maglor sighed, a wearied hand passed across his face where he sat at a writing desk piled high with parchment. The candles burned low in their brackets; they cast shadows dancing fitfully across the walls of the war-tent. "Nelyo, I cannot do this." 

Across the room Maedhros stood, grimly clad in gear of war he turned to his brother, and his eyes were merciless. 

"We must," he said; in his voice there was steel. "All Angband is broken. The Moringotto is made captive and his armies destroyed; his faithless lieutenant banished and his forces crippled. The Silmarilli are unearthed: they lie but leagues away under the open skies. At last they lie within our grasp. We must reclaim them. At the very least, we must try." 

"To what end?" Softly Maglor spoke, and his words fell into the brooding silence as Maedhros turned his face away.

The quiet stretched on, the candle-light guttered in the cool night breeze, until at last Maedhros replied, "To a bitter end, I know that you would say. Yet it may not be so; perhaps this chance is the coming of spring that soothes the frost of winter." 

"The frost may lift," Maglor said solemnly, "but beneath it the roots are dead." 

"Dead?" Maedhros echoed, and with a sour twist of his lips his voice hardened. "Is it not so that the Oath lives on within our blood? Its words still run thick in our veins, and we must honour them." A small noise of dissent sounded in Maglor's throat, and stiffly Maedhros swung about to face his brother fully. His maimed arm reclined within a supportive leather sling across his chest, but his left hand crept to the hilt of the dagger at his belt. "We _must_ , Káno, for so we have sworn. We must not falter here at the end of the path, not when our triumph is laid out before us." 

A withering look crossed Maglor's face, bile turned in his stomach, and venomously he hissed, "How can you say that? Our _triumph_? What triumph do you find in bloodshed and war? All that has been done, all that _we_ have done, all that we have _ruined..._ We have faltered too much already."

"Come, Káno," Maedhros began, but bitterly Maglor spoke over him.

"You will not lead us into another massacre for the sake of hasty words once sworn in youth and arrogance. Too much hatred has come from them, though that was not their purpose. There has been too much death as a consequence of pride. I am weary of it, let us cause no more." 

Scars crossed Maedhros' knuckles, they stood in gaunt, bloodless ridges as his hand closed upon dagger's hilt, and gall in turn crept into his tone. "You seek to lecture me about hatred? I - " 

"Tyelko was slain," Maglor spat, a snarl of some desperate, feral emotion knotted in his stomach, "and Curvo and Moryo and sweet Ambarussa, and Finno, and Findo, and how many countless thousands of others whose names we know not? How much more blood must be claimed by our vanity? Lay this quest aside, Nelyo, I beg you. It is madness to continue. Eönwë and the host of Manwë guard the Silmarilli: they should be taken back across the sea and forever removed from unclean hands that try to seize them. Let them shine once more in the lands of our people, let them heal the wounds that we have riven, as once they might have done." 

At that Maedhros scoffed, a rueful, ruinous smile creased his lips, and acridly he said, "Then from warmongers to tyrants you would pass them, and when all came to evil in the end you would claim that you had abstained for the greater good." Slowly then Maedhros shook his head, and with cold certainty in his voice he proclaimed, "You have a gentle heart, Káno, and none do I hold dearer in counsel and in love. But in this I will not be dissuaded: if you believe that the Valar would not bicker over our father's jewels like vultures about a carcass then surely you are mistaken. The Silmarilli belong in no hands but our own, and I will not throw aside centuries of struggle upon a whim of apathy, of complacency or cravenness. I _cannot_." 

The ghost of their father spoke in those words, this truly Maglor thought as he looked at his brother, at the bravery and stubbornness and desperation that gripped him, and from him then he looked away. A time it took to quieten the tumult of his thoughts, yet ever Maedhros' words preyed upon his heart: they laid bare what he had long dreaded to be the inevitable. Still his nature rebelled against it, the words struggled and lagged and clawed up out of his throat, yet gravely he held Maedhros' eyes as he nodded his head, as he said, "You condemn us to violence."   

But Maedhros had closed his heart; there was little pity left in him. "So be it." 


End file.
